The hill on which the horsemen were posted was a high one, and had smooth, treeless slopes on all sides. It was, in fact, a veritable turf-covered coteau.
Matt was planning to alight on the very crest of the hill. When he and his pards were ready to take wing again, he thought they could dash down the hill slope, and be in the air before the foot of the hill was reached.
The horses of the men below were frightened by the aëroplane, and began to kick and plunge. The trained riders, however, held them steady with one hand while gripping rifles with the other.
The flying machine circled obediently in answer to her steering apparatus, and landed on the crest of the hill with hardly a jar. As the craft rested there, the boys got out to stretch their cramped legs and inquire what the cowboys wanted. The latter had spurred their restive animals close, and were grouped in a circle about the Comet.
"Well, I'll be gosh-hanged!" muttered one, staring at the machine with jaws agape.
"Me, too!" murmured another. "Gee, man, but this here's hard ter believe."
"Hustlin' around through the air," put in another, "same as I go slashin' over the range on a bronk."
The fourth man gave less heed to his amazement than he did to the business immediately in hand.
"Ain't either one o' 'em George Hobbes?" he averred, looking Matt, McGlory, and Ping over with some disappointment.
That name, falling from the cowboy's lips, caused Matt and McGlory to exchange wondering glances.